The Darkness Is Misleading
by Crius96
Summary: Sherlock and John are on the case of a kidnapped girl. The case goes wrong and the girl ends up staying at 221b with them. Told from the perspective of the girl, this story gives a completely observational look on the Johnlock relationship and how they deal with everything after the Fall.
1. Rescue

I didn't know where I was anymore. I had been moved to so many different locations in the past twelve hours that I had lost track of both the number of them and the direction we had been travelling. All I knew was that we couldn't be more than three hours outside of London, at the very most. That was a relief, but it wasn't exactly a small searching area.

Forty-eight hours. They say that you had forty-eight hours to find a missing person before you should presume them dead. Only twelve down—that's not bad. Dad would have the best people working on it, I knew that. He would never settle for anything less than the best for me. It was something that had so often irritated me, but now I was thankful.

I wondered, as I stared at the black cloth that blinded me, how many of my previous locations they had already found. I shivered to think that they were any more than four behind. They would never catch up if they were.

A door opened off to my left and I stiffened, my fingers freezing where they had been trying for the millionth time to undo the knots that bound my wrists. All I had managed to get going down that road were broken fingernails and bleeding wrists, but I kept trying.

I swallowed the lump in my throat at the approaching footsteps. There were two pair now, and one was shuffling. The screech of a chair being dragged had me cringing and I wished I could cover my ears.

"Sit down, and don't speak," a voice growled. I recognized it as the same man who had been dragging me around for the last twelve hours.

"Fuck yourself." That was a new voice. Young, really young, and definitely male. There was the sound of a slap and heavy footsteps walking away. "You hit like a girl!" the boy yelled. After the door had been firmly slammed shut. "Ow, gah."

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice soft and raspy from lack of use, barely audible. I cleared it and tried again. "Who are you?"

"Who's there?" the boy asked, his tone fearful but defiant.

"It's ok. My name's Elizabeth Taylor. Have you been kidnapped as well?"

There was a pause. "Yeah. They've been moving me around a lot. Different places, never staying in the same place for the same amount of time."

This was starting to look bad. If they were doing this to more than just me, then there was going to be a division of forces looking for us. You can't have two people who're the best. "If they don't move us again, we should be fine," I whispered, afraid of being overheard.

"Why us? We're just kids." He sounded like he was crying. Maybe he was _really_ young.

"Tell me about yourself." I needed to distract him, to keep him calm. If he didn't freak out, maybe we could remain together.

He sniffed. "My name's Ryan Evans. I'm ten years old. I like soccer. I have a little sister, Jamie, and I live with my mum."

_Ten years old_. "Do you have a lot of money, Ryan?" I asked, my voice small. I hated myself for having to ask, like it made a difference. I was just trying to figure out what was going on.

"N-no," he stammered. "Dad left and took all the money."

"Ok, ok, Ryan? I need you to stop crying. Can you do that for me? Please?" Poor kid. He'd probably been acting like a big tough guy from minute one and this was the first time he had allowed himself any reprieve. He must have been pretty heavily depended on at home, though, because he stopped crying pretty quick.

Ryan wasn't rich. He was actually just the opposite. So if they weren't looking for money, then what? What was going on here?

"Elizabeth?"

"Yeah, Ryan?" I swallowed my fear and doubts, if only for a couple minutes. Someone would come; someone had to come. _But would they arrive on time?_ I pushed the thought aside.

"Tell me about yourself."

I laughed despite the situation we were in. "I'm seventeen. My dad has always pushed me academically, so I've got straight A's. I love to sketch, thanks to my mom."

"You sound nice," he stated, his foot scuffing across the floor.

I snorted. "You sound interesting. Like you have a life. I don't do anything, because everything I do is monitored."

"Too much freedom isn't always good, either."

I silenced, thinking about that. Naturally, he was right.

We didn't talk after that. I busied myself again with trying to undo the heavy knots around my wrists and found it impossible. I was bound by a piece of wire-thin rope around each wrist with three zip ties and a third rope connecting them into makeshift handcuffs. And they were too tight to slip out of, even with bloody wrists and hands.

Time elapsed slowly. Hours passed, maybe only minutes, before the door banged open and footsteps, running, came into the room. My hope soared as my blind fold was ripped from my eyes. Until the footsteps left me, and Ryan yelled. "Get off! Let go of me!"

"Ryan!" I screamed, watching as a towering, bulky man dragged him forward. "Leave him alone!"

"Put the boy down," a third and unfamiliar voice demanded. There was power in his voice—someone used to getting his way. I threw my head to the side, gazing at the men who had just walked into the room—three of them, only one with a gun.

"We found them!" the shorter man shouted in the direction of the open doorway, and soon seven officers came running into the room, their guns drawn.

_Thank God_.

There was a long pause before the man holding Ryan in his huge arms gave a raspy laugh. "He sends his happy regards." There was a single shot from a gun.

I stared in pure horror, all of the breath gone from my lungs, as blood and other, chunkier things sprayed from the side of Ryan's head. There was a scream bubbling up inside of me as his body hit the floor, but I couldn't breathe. I wanted to scream, I needed to scream, but all I could do was stare.

Someone shouted "Don't—" but the rest of his sentence was lost in a hail of gunfire. Bullets embedded themselves in the massive man's body and he jerked around before falling to the ground, like a doll whose strings had been cut.

Two pools of blood spread out on the grey concrete, one from a boy who had grown up too fast, and one from a man who had thrown his life away. The blood touched, and I expected to be able to tell the difference between them. I couldn't. My eyes swam and pretty soon tears were running down my cheeks. All I could see was the red on the concrete and the little boy who wouldn't ever get to play soccer again.

Something tugged at my arms and I shrieked, jumping back to reality. I wasn't through this yet. I was safe, but it wasn't over.

"It's alright," the shorter man, the one who had brought the police into the room, was cutting the ropes from my wrists. "You're safe now." The ropes came loose with a snap and I brought my aching arms to my chest, cradling them there. The man walked around to squat down in front of me. "I'm John Watson. I'm a doctor." He looked at my wrists and cringed. "Can you walk?"

I was about to reply that I could when a female officer walked up. "I've got it from here, Dr. Watson," she said tersely. I could tell immediately that there was some history there, though of what kind I wasn't sure. "Come one, Elizabeth, let's get you down to the station." Her voice was kind enough when she spoke to me, but I distrusted people who distrusted kind people. And I could tell Dr. John Watson was a kind person.

"If it's all the same to you," I responded, my voice as steady and sane as I could make it, "I think I would rather go with Dr. Watson."

The officer looked like I had just slapped her. I found myself offended by that—I would never slap an authority figure. Dr. Watson looked like he wanted to laugh but was too smart to even think about it.

"What's happening here, Donovan?" The first man that had been in the room with the gun, the one with the salt-and-pepper hair, approached us.

The female officer walked over to him and dropped her voice. She was getting really upset about it, and whoever this guy was—obviously a senior officer—was remaining very neutral. Eventually he pointed toward the door and told her to take a walk. She stormed out with one last glance in my direction, saying something about Stockholm syndrome.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Glad I'm not going with her."

Dr. Watson laughed, squelching it as the senior officer approached. I stood, because that's what you did when an officer walked up to you. He put his hand on my shoulder. "She's not always like that, I promise. She's just got a heavy grudge."

"Against Dr. Watson?" I asked, glancing over at him.

"Call me John, please."

I inclined my head to him as the officer spoke up. "No, against his friend over there." He pointed toward the third of the initial three men that had been in the room. "That's Sherlock Holmes. Ever heard of him?"

I shrugged. "Sure."

The officer stared at me. "I've never seen anyone who's heard of him just give a shrug. They either get really angry or really excited." He shook his head. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, by the way. John," he turned toward the doctor, "get her some medical attention and then get her down to the station." With a small squeeze to my shoulder, he walked away.

John walked forward until he stood beside me. I was two inches taller than him. "Let's go clean up your wrists," he offered, putting his hand on my back to guide me.

"John, where are you going?" Sherlock had looked up from his inspection of the bodies.

_The bodies_. I had forgotten about them. Legitimately forgotten. And now I was staring right at them again.

I swallowed the dry lump in my throat and followed John to meet Sherlock halfway to the… pool of blood. Better, but still not great.

"Where are you going?" the tall, slim man repeated, ignoring me completely.

"Elizabeth wouldn't go with Donovan, so I'm taking her to the station."

"Why wouldn't she go to the station with dear Sergeant Donovan?"

"Because," I spoke up, finding my voice, "_she_ has eyes and ears and didn't trust her."

Sherlock turned his unusually light eyes on me. They moved calculatingly up and down my body, snagging on my bleeding wrists longer than anything else. "And why," he stepped forward, putting himself into my personal space, "didn't she trust a police officer?"

I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes directly. "I would say instinct, but you wouldn't believe me." I ran my eyes over his outfit then met his eyes again. "She moved funny, like she was in a hurry and limping and trying to cover it up—probably from wearing heels all day. And she had a clip to her tone that wasn't sincere, no matter how soft and feminine she tried to make it."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tugged up into a smile before he backed off and turned back to John. "Go. I'll take a cab to the Yard when I'm done here."

Without another word, John turned me around and guided me outside. I froze when the sun hit my eyes, temporarily blinded. "Take your time," John told me, staying by my side until I could see again. When I took a step forward, John followed, leading me over to the back of an open ambulance. He jumped inside, grabbed a bright orange bag, and then jumped back down. With a glance toward the warehouse I had been in, he took me away from the ambulance and over to the back of one of the squad cars instead. He set the bag down on the trunk and gestured for me to sit on it too.

"No thanks," I shook my head. "I've been sitting for twelve hours. I'd rather stand."

John shot a look at me and dug something out of the orange bag. He poured some clear liquid onto some cloth-looking material and held out his hand. I extended my arm obediently. "You're taking this rather well," he remarked, beginning to clean out the opening on my wrist.

I bit my lip to repress the hiss I felt boiling inside me. I shrugged. "For now. I might freak out later."

He nodded. "It hasn't sunk in yet. It will, though. It always does."

I looked harder at him. "Speaking from experience?"

His eyes shot up and met mine for a nanosecond before he resumed doctoring my wrists. "I was in the military. Afghanistan. I got shot," was all he said. But that was all he had to say. "What happened?" he asked after a moment of silence that I hadn't personally seen the need to fill.

"What?" I asked, my eyebrows furrowing. He nodded at my wrists. _Oh._ "Isn't it obvious? I was trying to get free."

"And after it didn't work, after the ropes cut your wrists, you kept doing it?" he sounded mildly curious, like we were from different parts of the world discussing how we used different words for different things. He didn't sound angry, like I pictured my father being, or concerned, like my mother.

I shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. "They can only run you over if you lay down in front of their car," I mumbled, repeating something Dad had always told me. Granted, he probably hadn't been thinking of a situation like this, but it still applied.

John reached for a package of gauze and wrapped up my wrists. "Leave those on for twenty-four hours. Change them every day after that for three days, and then leave the wounds open. They are going to scar, but keeping them covered will help with that a little," he instructed, packing up the bag. He patted my knee and walked over to the back of the ambulance, disappearing inside. When he jumped back to the pavement, he no longer had the bag.

"Shall we?" John asked, coming to a halt beside me. The corner of my mouth lifted as I nodded, following him towards an awaiting police car. I got in first, sliding over to allow room for John. He gave me an odd glance before climbing in after me.

"I'm used to cabs," I said quietly, staring out of the window as the landscape began to move. "I'm also a little defiant with my father, and tend to treat all of the family cars as if they are cabs." My lips quirked. John remained silent beside me. "I don't have it, you know," I suddenly blurted out, my hands clenching at the hem of my shirt as I did so. It wasn't polite to blurt things out.

"Don't… have it, what?" John asked slowly, looking at me relatively calmly.

"Stockholm syndrome," I said, remembering what the female officer, Donovan, had said before leaving.

John smiled. "My best friend once told me that heroes don't exist. I believe that they do, and you calling me one would certainly not offend me." He held up his hands as I opened my mouth to protest. "I'm not saying that you do, or that you are, I'm just letting you know."

I fell quiet, returning to watching the scenery. Eventually the sparse trees faded out completely, giving way to towering office complexes and old brick buildings that were somehow still standing.

The car pulled up in front of Scotland Yard and John got out, holding the door for me. I crawled out, my wrist bumping the side of the door as I stood. I bit back a hiss. John slammed the door shut and led the way inside.

I'm proud to say I've never been inside the Yard before, and I hoped I never had to come here in handcuffs. I stuck close to John's side as he led me through a maze of desks and boxes and people to a medium sized office in the back.

"It's Lestrade's office," he explained, closing the door behind me. Instantly, the crescendo of noise that had engulfed me was cut off. Only the best for the boss, I guess. John gestured at one of the chairs. This time I sat down. John took the chair next to me, tapping his foot to a rhythm unknown to me.

A phone rang out suddenly, making me jump like I had been stuck with a hot poker. John fished around in his jacket pocket and brought out his phone. "Hello?" he answered it. "Yes, of course she is." He glanced over at me, his brows knitting together. "Yeah, yeah I would get on that. And get back here, Lestrade, we're twiddling our thumbs. I know. Alright." He hung up, putting the phone back in his pocket after turning it down a little.

"What's happened?" I asked, turning in the chair to face John as best as I could.

John shook his head. "I'm not sure; Lestrade wouldn't elaborate. But he said they were trying to contact your parents."

Relief washed through me until I recognized the stress he had put on the word _trying_. "What do you mean, 'trying?'" I asked hesitantly.

"Apparently they've been calling, but no one's answering."

"What does that mean?" I asked, after I had restarted my heart. My father never had his phone turned off, not even for meetings—he was too important of a person in his company for people to simply leave messages. And Mom wouldn't have set her phone down. She would have been waiting for the call—good or bad—with her stomach rolling with worry. Even Andrew, my brother, would have kept his phone handy, just in case.

John looked worried. "I don't know. Let me make a call." He took his phone back out and hit one number and the call button. Speed dial. "Yeah, I know," John said out of nowhere. It took me a heartbeat to realize he wasn't talking to me. What an odd way to answer the phone. "Because it's important. Yes, Sherlock, more important than that. Did Greg tell you—," he paused to let Sherlock talk. He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm fully aware of your mental abilities, Sherlock Holmes. Now would you do me a favor and go with Lestrade when he checks it out?" There was more talking from the other end of the conversation, but finally John breathed out a "Thank you" and hung up.

I cleared my throat, my nerves jumping. "What's the verdict, Doctor?"

He turned his dark blue eyes on me, concern floating in them. "They're going to go check everything out. Stop by your house, your brother's university. Hopefully they can get to the bottom of this."

I nodded but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

We sat in a silence that wasn't really awkward for a time that didn't seem to stretch all that long. I was staring at the corner of the desk, my eyes unfocused, when the door opened behind me. John got to his feet and I quickly followed, blinking my eyes into focus.

Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock stood in the doorway, the former more worn and ragged than he had been the last time I had seen him, the latter as impeccably held as ever. Sherlock shut the door behind him, latching it softly.

"What happened, Inspector?" John asked; at the same time I demanded, "Where are my parents?"

Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably. Over his shoulder, Sherlock's eyes locked with John's, silently communicating. The worst conclusions were already drawn in my head. "Elizabeth, I…" Lestrade shook his head, looking lost. I was willing to bet that that rarely happened.

I tried to swallow with my dry throat. "And my brother?" I had to ask. I didn't want to know, I really didn't, but I needed to.

Lestrade held my eyes and shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry."

My breath fell from my lungs. My legs felt weak. Had someone just punched me? Had I just been physically beaten? Because that's what it felt like. "Right," I whispered, nodding minutely. I turned around and retook my spot in the chair, bringing my knees up to my chest. I could hear hushed voices behind me, but I tuned them out for now.

Another scream was building in my chest and tears were stinging the backs of my eyes, but I fought them both down. I could still freak out later. I still wasn't through this yet. "How?" I finally spoke up, making my voice loud and clear enough to be heard. I wasn't sure I would have the courage to repeat myself.

I didn't turn around during the pause that followed. "We think it's the same man behind your kidnapping." Lestrade's voice. He sounded unsure. I didn't think that happened very often either. Maybe this was a day of firsts for him.

For me too.

My lips wavered. "That's not what I asked." Thankfully my voice sounded more confident than I felt, because I felt like jelly.

"Elizabeth, you don't want—"

I stood and spun around quickly, stopping John mid-sentence. Sherlock tilted his head at me and walked forward, invading my personal space again. I didn't try to meet his eyes this time, instead staring at the knot in his scarf.

"Your father was perceived as the threat and shot once in the head," he told me levelly.

"Sherlock…" John breathed. From the corner of my eye I saw him turn away and shake his head. But I was focusing on Sherlock's scarf.

"Your brother was home with them," Sherlock continued. My stomach clenched at the thought of Andrew. "With the distraction he had been provided, he was able to fight back. He was shot once in the knee, stabbed through the shoulder, and shot four times through his right lung. He drowned in his own blood."

The blue scarf was getting blurry. My hands were tightened into fists, but they remained at my sides. My breathing was still level.

"Your mother was…" Sherlock paused, ducking his head and clearing his throat. "She was violated and smothered to the brink of death twice. Then they slit her throat and walked away."

A sob ripped through me and I reacted before I could really think about what I was doing. I brought my fists up and pounded them against Sherlock's chest. He allowed me four solid hits before he grabbed my wrists below my bandages, holding them steady. I yelled, trying to break away, but all he did was pull me forward and wrap an arm around me.

I slumped against him, sobs raking through me, tears soaking through his silk shirt. He moved both hands behind my back, one holding my shoulders as they shook, the other gently stroking my hair. I clung to him like a lifeline, my face buried in his shoulder.


	2. Reliving

"Lestrade, she's been through enough today," John said. "Does she have anyone she can stay with?"

There was a silence in which I'm sure the inspector was shaking his head. I know I was, even though mine was still pressed against Sherlock's shoulder.

"John," Sherlock's voice was soft, "she can stay with us. If you want to," he amended, pulling away from me slightly to give me a questioning look.

Words failed me. What does one usually say when offered a place to sleep during circumstances like this? Was there a customary answer? I'm sure most kids would say no, in some varietal form at least.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and face, wincing as the bandages pulled on my wrists. But it was okay; pain was okay right now. I nodded sharply, numbly. "Yeah," was all I managed to say. I had nowhere else to go, no other family to speak of.

These two strangers had been nothing but kind to me.

These two strangers…

What was my life becoming?

I glanced over at John, catching the look of astonishment he bore that was quickly replaced by a halfhearted smile. Had Sherlock surprised him, or had I?

"Alright, but I want her down here tomorrow for a few questions."

"Why?" Sherlock released me to face Lestrade, and I felt unnaturally exposed. "What could you discern from her that I cannot?"

"That's not…" Lestrade sighed. "It's the record keeping of it. I need records. Proper records."

"I'll record it." Sherlock reached back and put his arm around my shoulders and guided me from the office, John at our heels. "Have a good evening, Lestrade."

"Do you do that often?" I asked once we had reached the street, trying to ignore the fact that I had just had an emotional breakdown, as well as agreed to go home with two strangers.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, holding his hand aloft to hail a cab.

But John understood. "Yes, he does. All the time."

Sherlock turned to John as the cab pulled up. "What are you talking about?" He held the door open for me, and I crawled in first, taking the seat with my back against the cabbie's. John got in after me and took the seat opposite. Sherlock sat beside him and closed the door.

"221b Baker Street," John told the cabbie, who then took off. John looked at Sherlock. "Tell poor Greg what to do, like he's a child. Order him about."

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh and turned to stare out of the window. "Well of course I do. Someone has to, and his boss does a poor job."

I grinned. I couldn't help it.

I had read about Sherlock Holmes in the papers, and I knew how brilliant he was, but I had never expected him to be quite so human. And as for Dr. John Watson… well, the papers have a nasty habit of printing gossip, and of trying to bring up the worst in everyone they write about. And they always fixated on how John was still a bachelor. If that was the worst they could dig up, what exactly did that say about him?

And was he really single? I glanced between John and Sherlock, taking in their body language and the grins they tried to suppress after their eyes met. Maybe, _maybe_, they weren't an actual couple, but they may as well be.

My smile faded as my thoughts shifted to my parents and their imperfect marriage. They weren't always on the best of terms—I had known that. Even they had known that. But they had loved each other, at least at one point in their lives. I had had my suspicions that they were only barely holding on lately, waiting for me to graduate. Waiting for their nest to empty. I had been thinking that they were going to call it off and were only holding it together for me.

"Everything alright?"

I looked up from my lap to where John was looking at me with concern. I gave a slight nod.

"Of course she's not. She was thinking about her parents," Sherlock spoke up.

I turned my head in his direction, noting the neutral mask he wore over his features as he stared out of the window, his reflection mirroring his slight movements. "How did you know?"

He turned slowly to me. "You've just been told that they were killed. Naturally, you would be thinking about them." His voice was soft. Not kind, but in no way rude. Neutral, like his expression. Waiting to judge my reaction. Or maybe he already was judging me.

I had the feeling that he was always observing, always calculating.

I nodded slowly. "You're right. I was thinking about them. I suspect I will be for a while. I mean… they were my parents." Not to mention my brother.

God, my brother. Andrew. My throat constricted and my eyes closed for a handful of seconds as I fought for control. Three years older than myself, Andrew had been engaged to the love of his life, a girl that I didn't think fancied me much. The feeling was mutual, but I dealt with her for Andrew's sake. He had been an adventurer: a rock climber, a surfer, a horse rider, a football player. He was studying to become a psychologist. And now he was gone, his life snuffed out like a candle.

John reached across the small space and patted my knee. "It's alright."

"But it isn't, is it?" I asked, shaking my head and looking out of the cold glass at the people walking along, oblivious to what was happening in the world around them. Not even twenty-four hours ago, I had been one of those people. I wanted to be one of them again, but somehow I knew it was an unattainable wish. I was forever marked by the ugliness of the world, and no matter how hard I scrubbed at it, the mark wouldn't come off. "I just…" I lifted my arm in an open-handed gesture before dropping it back to my lap.

The inside of the cab became suffocatingly quiet. I could tell John was uncomfortable with it, but he didn't say anything—just kept fidgeting. Sherlock remained still and unreadable, his breathing slowed down to an almost unnatural pace. I wanted to say something and was ashamed that I couldn't. What would Dad say, if he could see me like this? Tongue-tied and unable to make simple conversation.

My hands tightened into fists.

Not long after, the cab pulled off the road and stopped in front of a small café. At first I thought the driver had gotten the address wrong, but then I noticed the black door to the right of the red canopy.

Sherlock exited the cab immediately and motioned for me to follow. I did after only a small glance at John. Sherlock walked up to the door of the flat, taking his time with the keys as John paid the cabbie back on the curb.

I stood behind Sherlock and slightly off to the side, suddenly feeling like I was intruding. John walked up and stood beside me, minutely angling his shoulder so that the one nearest me was just behind mine. A discreet way of including me, of placing me first.

These strangers were too kind.

Sherlock swung open the door and entered the building. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I followed. We climbed a couple short flights of stairs and came into a cluttered living room. It was an organized clutter, though, not messy. The only things that looked out of place were a few cardboard boxes labeled "John" and "SH" that were set in random open sections of floor.

"Can't decide whose room to move in to?" I asked before John could apologize for the mess, which he had obviously been about to do.

Instead he choked. "What?"

Sherlock laughed, moving to the door to hang up his coat and scarf. "I like her, John. She sees more than you do."

I raised my eyebrow at that but said nothing. My eyes swept the rest of the flat around me, taking in the entirety of the living room and kitchen, as well as the entrance to a hallway and the beginning of another flight of stairs. I pointed at the last and turned to John. "I'm going to assume your room is up there?"

But he obviously wasn't done with the first conversation. "How could you possibly… I'm used to him," he gestured a little wildly towards Sherlock, "but he's different. You're just a kid. You're normal. How?"

I shrugged, turning back towards the kitchen and staring at the cluttered table and all of the science-y things that covered it.

"The way you two act around each other. You hide it really well, but I've seen it in other new couples so often—at school and such. And the boxes." I trailed my fingers along the back of the chair closest to me. "Typically I would think it meant that you had recently moved here, but the dust suggests otherwise, as does the fact of the cluttered state of this room, and the way you rattled off the address to the cabbie."

I flicked my eyes back to John, who was staring at me with wide eyes and an open mouth. "She's another you," he finally proclaimed at Sherlock, who was grinning at me. John threw up his hands and walked up the staircase that I had spotted.

"I knew his room was up there," I murmured.

"May I ask how you came to that conclusion?" Sherlock asked, sitting down on the chair opposite the one I was standing behind.

"I just knew from reading the papers that you two had met by becoming flat mates, and I figured you would have been here first, giving you the pick of the rooms. Leaving the upstairs for John."

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers under his chin. His calculating eyes swept over me for the second time that day, but this time I didn't feel self-conscious about it. "Curious, isn't it?" he finally asked, leaning back and resting his arms on the arm rests.

"What is?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

I forced myself to be more perceptive than the average person, made other peoples' business my own, but it didn't come naturally and it certainly didn't mean I could read minds.

I wasn't another Sherlock Holmes, and I didn't want to be.

I just enjoyed infuriating my father.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, motioning with his hand for me to remain silent. John walked down the stairs just then and he took one look at the situation and smirked. He motioned me over.

"What is he doing? He asked me a question and then he told me to be quiet."

John shook his head softly, his eyes on Sherlock. "He was talking to himself. He does that. He's not being rude, that's just… him. Helps him think." John glanced over at me. "Would you like some tea and toast?"

My mouth watered. "I would love some." I turned to start walking toward the kitchen and when John didn't follow me right away, I glanced over my shoulder at him. He was staring fondly at Sherlock, who still had his eyes closed and was ticking his fingers along the armrests of the grey chair. His lips twitching, John walked past me into the kitchen.

I stood off to the side as he busied himself. I had offered to help and he had denied my assistance, so now I was just watching. "Does he do that often?" I asked, breaking the silence that had overtaken us. "Go into his mind like that, I mean. Close himself off?"

John leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms across the chest. "The first thing you need to know about Sherlock is that he's not like you and me, though you're closer to him than I am, I suspect, as far as mental abilities go. His brother doesn't even understand him. But he's a great man, and through all the years I've known him, he's been becoming a good one." John got that soft look on his face, and I was willing to bet that Sherlock's becoming a better person had a lot to do with being around this ex-military doctor. "But to answer your question, no, he doesn't do this very often. Only when he's thinking about a lot and needs to sift through it all and organize it."

We fell quiet again until the kettle boiled and the toast was done. I buttered mine but left off the jam, of which John put on a lot.

I stared at the light colored liquid in my cup, my appetite suddenly gone. "Judging by your expression back at the Yard, I'm going to assume that he doesn't take in strays all that often either." My eyes flicked back up to John.

John set his cup down at stared levelly across the table at me. "Elizabeth, you are not a stray."

"Aren't I?" I was trying to fight down the tears, the burning in my throat, but everything around me was reminding me of my parents or Andrew or all three of them at once, and I didn't know how long I could remain this solid wall before my foundation crumbled. "I have no parents, no siblings, no aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins—nobody. My parents were both only-children and my grandparents died when I was just a baby." I forced myself to stop talking. If I kept talking I was going to start crying.

I was not going to start crying.

John stood and walked around the table toward me. "It's alright."

"Don't comfort me, or I'll cry," I warned him.

His smile was gentle. "That's okay. Crying is good. It helps the healing process." He reached to hug me.

I stood sharply and pushed past him to the far side of the kitchen, bracing my palms against the counter. A tear had slipped past my defenses, but I left it there to evaporate. It was one tear. Just one. It didn't matter right now. I bit my lip and stared pointedly at a spot on the wall, my shoulders shaking with the force of holding in the sobs that wanted to be heard.

But no. I was bigger than that—stronger than that. I wouldn't cry. Not again. Not today.

"It did surprise me, you're right," John spoke up from behind me. He sounded like he was still back at the table. He hadn't followed me. Point for him. "He's not a trusting person, but he trusted you enough to bring you back here."

I tried to take a deep breath and it shook, so I blew it out slowly through my nose. I didn't move.

"He's also not the type of man who comforts, but he comforted you."

"He told me how my family was murdered." The words tumbled from my mouth before I could stop them. Of course he had told me. I had demanded that I be told.

"You asked him to. And he pitied you, he felt bad about having to do it, so he held onto you afterward. You don't know Sherlock, so I don't expect you to understand, but that…" his voice dropped off and I was tempted to turn around. Not yet. Not until I was sure I wouldn't lose it. "I rarely see that side of him around me. I've never seen it around someone he's never met."

"John, can I talk to you?" Sherlock's low voice sounded normal, but I could hear the slight undercurrent of urgency in his tone. John sighed and I listened to him walk into the living room.

I brought my hands up and covered my face, wiping hastily at my eyes to clear away all of the moisture. I inhaled deeply until my breath didn't shake and then returned to the table. My tea was cool, so I dumped it down the sink before pouring another cup and sipping it. My hands shook slightly. I ignored it.

John walked back into the kitchen, Sherlock following him. "Everything alright?" I asked, my eyes skipping between the two of them.

Sherlock poured himself some tea and blew on it. "Fine. Pertaining to a different case," he blew on his tea again before taking a sip.

I nodded slowly, unsure of whether to believe him or not. "I don't suppose I can go to my house? To pick up a few things?" I asked quickly, fearing the answer.

Sherlock looked across the room at John. Their eyes held for a long moment. They were silently conversing again. Trying to decide who should bear the bad news?

Finally Sherlock set his cup down. "They're still working the scene, logging evidence. Perhaps tomorrow we can call up Lestrade and ask for a favor." His voice was level, normal. We were just talking. Maybe about the weather.

"What was it that you wanted?" John asked, retaking his seat across from me at the table and taking a bite of his toast. My own mouth went dry as I thought of how cold his toast and tea would be. Gross.

I shrugged. I had to remind myself that we were just talking. "Clothes, mostly. Something to sleep in." I pinched the ratted and dirty tee between my fingers. "Something to change out of. A hairbrush, a toothbrush."

Sherlock gave a small smile. "Follow me. I'll see what I can do. John, do you mind?" John gestured for Sherlock to proceed. "Elizabeth, if you please." Sherlock walked from the room, obviously expecting me to follow. So I did.

He led me down the hall that I had observed when I had first come into the flat and took me into the room at the end. "Yours?" I asked, not really needing to. It was a bedroom, and being that it was not John's, it had to be Sherlock's.

But he still nodded, confirming my thoughts.

I had read that he was rude. Maybe the papers had gotten it wrong. Maybe he was being nice to me.

Maybe he had changed.

He walked over to his dresser and rummaged around in the top drawer for only a moment before pulling out two articles of grey clothing. He tossed them to me. I caught them deftly, but they kind of fell open in my hands. Pajamas. I glanced up at the man standing in front of me.

"They will be a little long, but they'll fit better than anything John has got." He brushed past me and walked back down the hallway, but not all the way to the mouth of it. He gestured inside of an already lit room. Peering inside, I saw a sink, toilet, and most importantly, a shower. "You can clean up, if you like. There's a comb in the top right drawer and about fifteen spare toothbrushes in the very rear of the lower left."

"Why so many?" I couldn't stomp down my curiosity.

He raised an eyebrow at me. "Experiments." And then he vanished back into the kitchen.

Still mulling that comment over, I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. After refolding them, I set the pajamas on the far corner of the counter, underneath a towel that I found in the cupboard against the opposite wall. Clapping my hands together with a slight tremble of nervousness, I turned the shower on to let the water warm.

I stepped back and peeled out of my torn and tattered clothes. I stared longingly at what had been my favorite pair of jeans. Now they were ruined. I shook my head sharply. _Shut up_. They're just jeans. Just jeans. Inanimate objects that can be replaced.

Not like Ryan.

Not like your family.

Throwing the clothing into the garbage bin, I blinked away the tears that were rapidly forming in my eyes and stepped into the boiling water. I hissed at how scalding it was, how raw it made my skin feel, but I didn't turn it down. Not because it felt good, and not because it hurt, but because it was real. This whole day had been a big blur of events that only happened in crime novels and on late night telly.

But the hot water was solid. Figuratively. It was real. I could feel it, and I knew I wasn't imagining it. Because if I was imagining a shower, it certainly wouldn't be this hot.

I leaned my head back and let my hair soak before reaching for the shampoo I had seen when I had stepped in. I was careful not to get my bandages too wet as I scrubbed my scalp, using my fingernails to get off all of the dirt. I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and then found the soap, using it to clean the dust and grime from my skin. No matter how hard I tried to keep them dry, my bandages ended up soaked. Sighing, I let the water shed the last of the suds from my body and shut the water off. I stepped out of the shower.

The air in the bathroom was heavy with steam. I couldn't see my reflection in the mirror.

I felt like I was suffocating.

Quickly, I toweled off and slipped on the pajamas Sherlock had given me. He was right, they were too long. I rolled up the legs so I could walk without stepping on the hems but I kept the sleeves long—they only went down to the tips of my thumbs, anyway.

I looked in the drawers and found the comb and multiple toothbrushes. I picked a blue one. After wiping the mirror free of steam, I combed the snarls from my hair and brushed my teeth.

I stared at my reflection for a long time. There was a bruise high on my right cheek that no one had mentioned. It was already dark, so it would probably be gone completely in three days, maybe two. My eyes looked darker than they had yesterday morning, my cheeks more sunken. Had I really changed that much in just twenty-four hours?

I reached over and turned off the lights. I stared at the same spot of blackness before eventually reaching over and opening the door.

The cool air of the hall hit me like a physical blow. I drew in a long sharp breath, ignoring the ice that frosted over my lungs as I breathed. It was just more reality. Something to cling to that was solid—I couldn't tie it to any memories.

Except for playing in the snow with Andrew, building snow forts and having snowball fights across the driveway. Wrestling each other down a hill and rolling to the bottom, breathless and freezing with snow down both of our coats and steam puffing from our mouths. Ice frosting our lungs.

I clenched my jaw. So I was wrong. Memories were going to be creeping up on me from everywhere. All the time. More than likely when I was least expecting it, when my guard was down. Best to just prepare myself for it now. Even better to keep my guard up.

I found Sherlock and John in the living room, John sitting in the chair opposite Sherlock's grey one, the detective standing by the left window, gazing at the street below. He glanced over when I walked in, just his eyes moving. "They fit well," he noted neutrally. He seemed to be neutral a lot around me, like he couldn't decide how he wanted to act. Maybe he wasn't sure if he could trust me yet.

John twisted in his chair and I heard paper crinkling. "You look better. Refreshed," he amended.

"I feel better." I walked farther into the room, taking a straight-backed seat on the couch. "And thank you, both of you. For everything. I—" I cleared my throat and dropped my eyes to my lap.

"You're welcome, Elizabeth. It's not a problem, really."

I looked up at John. The paper I had heard, I could now see, was a newspaper, and it was open on his lap. My eyes flicked back up to his. He was giving me a small but earnest smile.

I nodded at the paper. "What edition is that?"

He glanced down at it, as so many people did, as though he had quite forgotten it was on his lap. As if he had to remind himself that I was talking about the paper and that a leather-bound book hadn't suddenly appeared out of thin air. "This mornings."

I had to glance at the window to get a time reference. It was dark, so late evening. There was probably an article in there about me. I didn't want to know if there was. I didn't want to know what it said. Or more importantly, what it didn't say. What I hadn't accomplished yet in my life.

I was young, I know. Seventeen. But what have I done with my life? No boyfriend. No friends at all, really, because Father kept me at home, training me up to take over his position at his company. I could draw, but didn't do it very often. I hadn't traveled, hadn't been adventurous like my brother.

And then the huge family disappointment. I wanted to leave London and go to an American college. I thought they would be pleased that I was good enough to get accepted, but no, Mom was distraught that I would even think about leaving and Dad was… well, he was Dad.

I shook it off and got back to the present conversation. "How quickly do you think—"

"The story will be out by tomorrow morning," Sherlock spoke up from the window, where he was now leaning back against the pane. "But, the details will be fairly hush hush, and none of the officers are going to tell any reporter about you staying here."

I nodded solemnly. The thought had not even crossed my mind that a reporter could find out that I had come here. What if they did? No, Sherlock said they wouldn't.

I wondered if anyone would talk about Ryan.

I heard that gunshot explode in my head again and winced. Somehow, that shot had been louder that the cacophony of gunfire that had followed.

John must have seen my wince because he asked about wrists. "How did the wraps fair in the shower?"

I held my arms aloft, pushing back the long sleeves of the borrowed pajamas. "They got wet."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm going to go shower." He left the room, walking past John and trailing his fingers over John's shoulder.

John gave a soft sigh before pushing himself to his feet. "Sit tight." He walked into the kitchen and returned a couple of seconds later with a first aid kit. He set it beside me on the couch and knelt in front of me.

"John, you don't—"

He cut me off with a raise of his hand. "If I weren't a doctor, I wouldn't bother. In fact, I really wouldn't recommend this at all if I didn't have a degree in medicine. But I'm at your disposal, so I may as well be put to use."

That was my problem. He had already done so much for me. And now he was continuing to do more.

I sighed, holding still as he unwrapped the soggy white bandages. I cringed as the lowest layer tugged at my raw skin. But I didn't make a noise or complain in any way.

"You can't imagine how many times I've had to do this to Sherlock," John chuckled, setting aside the used gauze and bringing out new wrapping.

I stayed quiet, waiting for John to continue talking. Hoping that he would.

"When I first met him, he was so self-absorbed, self-confident. Arrogant, some said. I guess he still is." John gently laid the first strip of bandaging on my wrist. "He was mentally superior to everyone, and he knew it." John paused then, his eyes unfocused as he stared at a point past my elbow. "Well, all but one man."

"Moriarty." I had read about it, had seen it on the news. Who hadn't? It had been the trial of the century, with an ending fit for a theatrical tragedy.

John nodded. "Sherlock doubted himself. He didn't admit it, but I could see it. He wasn't the only smart person in the room for once. A part of him resented it, I know, and a part of him relished it, but I think a part of him feared it as well." He tightened the bandage on my left wrist and moved to my right. "You saw the stories that were broadcast four years ago?"

"Yeah." My voice was soft. I felt like I was treading on a minefield. John—everyone—had thought Sherlock dead for three years. John was a soldier, sure, but I didn't know how sensitive he was going to be about this topic. I probably wouldn't be too stable about it.

John blinked. "When he came back, he wasn't… he wasn't quite the same. He was more forceful, more direct. He was more human. He carried this light in his eye and this air about him that I hadn't seen before." John shook his head. "I don't know, it just felt like he was _living_ more. He certainly got hurt more often," he chuckled.

"Have you always loved him?" I asked after a heartbeat, before I could convince myself not to.

John shrugged, putting away the wraps and snapping the medical kit shut. "I like to think that I did." He pulled himself up from the floor and sat beside me, leaning forward and clasping his hands between his knees. "He certainly thinks I was swooning over him since day one. There were definitely times when I was annoyed, or disappointed, or so mad that I just wanted to pack my bags and leave. But I never did. And Elizabeth, if that isn't love, then it's stupidity, and only Sherlock thinks I'm stupid."

"No, I think you're an idiot. There's a difference." Sherlock walked back into the room in a pair of black pajamas that were otherwise identical to the ones I was wearing. He held a towel to his hair with one hand, ruffling it dry.

John threw a sidelong glance at me, a small _you see what I mean_ in the smile he gave me. He patted my knee and pushed himself to his feet, walking back to the kitchen with the first aid kit in hand.

Sherlock had his hands braced on the back of John's chair now, and when the short doctor walked past him heading for the hallway, Sherlock leaned back and bumped hips with him. John laughed and pushed at his side. "Shove off," he grumbled good-naturedly, walking sideways to get out of the reach of his lithe boyfriend.

A light flicked on in the otherwise dark depths of the hallway and I watched John's shadow move through it, reaching for something. In a closet, maybe. My suspicions were confirmed when the light was shut off and John came back holding a pillow and a small stack of blankets.

"It's been a long day for us. I can only imagine how tired you must be," John remarked as he handed over the blankets.

He was right, of course, so I nodded in agreement. I failed to mention, however, how terrified I was to fall asleep.

Because every time I closed my eyes, there was only one image I saw. Only one sound I heard.

"Thank you." I stood up and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, giving him a quick hug. Obviously caught by surprise, he hesitated a fraction of a second before responding in kind. I backed away and my eyes flicked to Sherlock, trying to gage his reaction to what I had just done.

He held up his hands and backed away. "Not a hugger." Well, he had taken my glance the wrong way. "Coming, John?" he asked, turning towards his bedroom.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth." John left the room. He turned off the lights as he went.

I was alone. Again. In the darkness; the only light from the streetlamps, peeking around the edges of the drapes.

I dropped back to the couch, putting my head in my hands. I started shaking. _No, stop it._ I shook my head and clenched my fists, my fingernails digging into my palms. I was fine. I lurched to my feet, placing the pillow where I wanted it on the couch and situating the blankets over the cushions.

When there was nothing left to do, nothing left to fuss over, I laid down between the blankets. I stared at the ceiling, though I couldn't really see it in the darkness. I was cold, but I didn't dare grab the other two blankets at the foot of the couch. If I was warm, I would fall asleep.

I was going to fall asleep anyway. My mind was fighting to stay awake, knowing the horrors that were awaiting under the promise of rest, but my body was having none of it. I was exhausted—physically and mentally drained.

It didn't take long, lying down in the silent flat, before the darkness pulled me under.

I was harassed almost instantly with a nightmare.

Pure terror knotted my stomach and I tasted bile at the back of my throat. Small bangs and crashes echoed around the dark room I was standing in, making it sound tremendous. Maybe it was. Like a warehouse.

I wanted to wake up. I didn't like where this was going at all. I wanted to wake up.

Lights flared up, blinding me momentarily. I blinked rapidly to clear my vision. When I could see again, I wasn't alone.

Ryan was in front of me. Blood coated the side of his head, matting his hair. His neck was red and his shirt appeared black with the liquid.

My heart jumped to my throat, blocking the scream that wanted to rise.

His eyes bored into me. "This is your fault." He took a step forward and I stumbled back two. "You did this to me."

I shook my head mutely, my eyes wide. I couldn't form words.

"You did this!" he yelled, running at me.

"No!" I screamed, ducking and covering my head. The lights fell and I was alone again. I fell to my knees, pressing my palms to the floor.

When I blinked again I was standing in my house. My living room. My family sat in chairs in front of me, my parents on the outside, Andrew in the middle.

I looked at Dad. I blinked, and he was dead. Then Andrew. Blink, dead. Same with Mom. Blink, no sound, lots of blood, dead.

Suddenly it was like waking up, without waking up. I didn't think I was dreaming any more. I looked down at my hands. One held a knife and was coated in blood. The other was holding a gun.

I dropped the items and screamed.


	3. Repossession

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth, breathe. Open your eyes. Hey, it's me."

My screams choked off as a voice permeated my dreams. My eyes flew open.

I was panting. I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. I was suffocating.

I threw the tangled mess of blankets off of me and sat up, putting my head between my knees. My palms were wet, and I wiped them wildly off on my pajamas. For a split second I thought it was blood. But no, just sweat.

My whole body was trembling.

"Elizabeth?"

I jumped, raising my head. John was kneeling beside me, a worried look on his face. His hair was messy from sleep but his eyes were alert. Sherlock stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder. If he hadn't been in pajamas, I would have thought he had been awake the whole night.

I drew in a shaky breath and a tear slipped from my eye, rolling down my cheek.

"Shh," John breathed, sitting next to me and wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "Shh, it's alright."

I shook my head, choking on a sob. John pulled me against him, and I didn't resist. I needed comfort. I wanted it with a tremendous ache in my heart that threatened to smother me. I leaned my head against his shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut in hopes of keeping the rest of my tears at bay.

I was still trying to control my emotions when I felt the cushions sink with the weight of a person on my right. A hand started rubbing gentle circles across my back.

I wasn't sure if it was the additional comfort or the fact that it was coming from Sherlock, but I lost it.

My fingernails bit into my palms as I sobbed against John's shoulder. He held me tightly with one arm, his other hand resting on my forearm. "It's okay, Elizabeth," he whispered. "The first night is always the worst. It gets better, I promise."

"I killed them," I choked out, trying to drag in enough air to be able to talk, let alone in complete sentences.

I felt John shake his head. "You didn't kill anyone. It was just a nightmare."

More tears poured from my eyes, soaking into John's shirt. He was probably going to have to change it before he went back to bed. "No. I killed them. All of them. It's my fault they died."

Hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me away from John. "Elizabeth, look at me," Sherlock's deep voice commanded.

I opened my eyes. They skimmed his initially, because I was ashamed I was crying. Around John, I didn't feel so bad. John knew; John understood. Sherlock was… different. I wanted to impress him. I wanted him to think highly of me. I didn't want him to see me cry.

Sherlock squeezed my shoulders. "I know you blame yourself, and I know you will for a long time. Nothing John or I can say will be able to convince you otherwise." He rubbed his hands over my upper arms, warming them up.

I hadn't realized how cold I was. I looked up, locking eyes with Sherlock. I made myself do it. Because it was easier than what I had done in my nightmare—easier than what I had been through yesterday.

"But no matter what you think," he continued, "you did not kill anyone. Not your parents, not your brother, not even that little boy in the warehouse."

"Ryan," I whispered. For some reason, I felt like I needed his name to be known.

Sherlock inclined his head at me. "You didn't shoot Ryan. You didn't. You were a victim in this, and blaming yourself isn't going to get you through this. I need your help to find the person who _did_ kill them. But I need you steady and sane to do it."

Slowly I nodded, dragging in a long breath. Hastily, I wiped the backs of my hands across my cheeks. I didn't unclench my fists. I didn't think I was physically able to yet.

Sherlock let his hands fall to his lap.

I was still shaking, still cold. The absence of the slight heat his hands had given off reminded me of that.

"Sherlock," John put a hand on my shoulder and rubbed the heel of his other across my back, "could you go grab my bottle of zolpidem, please?"

Sherlock stood obediently, returning a short while later with a glass of water and a small bottle of pills. He retook his seat beside me on the couch.

John released me and took the bottle from Sherlock. I held my hand out for the glass. I wasn't stupid; I knew the pills were for me. "Here," John handed me two of the small white pills, "they'll help you sleep."

I popped the pills back without question, taking a deep swallow of the water. "Does it ever go away?" I asked. Dammit, no. Now I didn't want to know. I wished I could take it back.

"Some days are better than others."

I looked down at the mostly empty pill bottle and didn't believe him.

John followed my glance. After a short pause, he stood and walked from the room without another word. Sherlock placed his hand on the side of my head, his long fingers wrapping around behind, before leaning down to plant a swift kiss on my forehead. "Sleep well," he whispered. Then he, too, left.

I collapsed sideways and was asleep before I could pull the blankets up to my chin.

Coffee. I smelled coffee. Oh, sweet lord, and toast and eggs too.

I rolled off the couch before I was completely awake, stumbling a bit as I walked toward the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the table, already dressed to perfection, staring into a microscope.

I rubbed my eyes and suppressed a yawn. "Please tell me I'm not imagining the mouth-watering smell of breakfast." He just didn't strike me as the cooking type. In fact, he looked like he barely ate at all.

Genius indeed.

"Oh good, you're awake. Counter." He gestured with his left index finger without looking up from what he was doing—whatever that was.

I walked past him, making a bee-line for the food. I took a bite of toast as I poured myself a cup of coffee. I left it black this morning. I usually put in two sugars and a cream. I needed some bitterness to jar me awake today. Grabbing the plate and the cup, I walked over to the table and sat across from Sherlock.

He adjusted the microscope, ignoring me as I ate. After a few seconds, he switched out the sample he was staring at for another. His eyes narrowed and he adjusted the machine again.

I looked more closely at him, trying to decide if he actually had made me breakfast. He didn't have any crumbs on his jacket, but maybe he didn't eat toast. Right. I took a bite of my eggs. They weren't cold, but they weren't hot.

"John make this?"

"He went down to the station to talk to Lestrade about getting some of your personal belongings. Not sure how long ago that was, though." His eyes wavered before he put another sample under the microscope.

That was a yes. I smiled, sipping on my coffee.

After a few minutes had passed and I had finished eating, and Sherlock hadn't done anything else but switch out and stare at… things under his microscope, I opened my mouth to ask something. At the last second I decided against it, blowing out a breath in short bursts instead.

"You may as well ask."

My eyes flicked up to Sherlock, who hadn't moved. I stood, taking my empty plate and cup over to the sink and rinsing them off. I didn't say anything until I sat back down. "It's nothing, never mind."

He looked up at me for a second and then back down at the microscope.

I opened my mouth to start talking again and then closed it. I did the same thing two more times before biting my cheek. I tapped my thumb against the side of the table in an agitated rhythm.

"Elizabeth."

I looked up. Sherlock was staring at me. I stopped tapping. "Sorry. It's just… What are you doing?"

"Cataloging different types of plant cells." He pressed his fingers together, staring at me over the top of them. "Why were you hesitant to ask me that?"

I paled. Hopefully not too much. "I—Dad worked at home a lot and…" I took a deep breath, slowing the stammer coming out of my mouth. "Nothing. No reason. Forget about it."

Sherlock stared at me for a half-second longer before returning to his work.

"Sherlock?"

He looked back up at me. There was no irritated sigh, no agitation in his body language. He sat there, staring expectantly at me.

"Does your hair naturally look like that, or do you curl it every morning?" I somehow managed to keep a straight face.

He arched an eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He was opening his lips to answer when there was a knock at the door. A knock, so not John.

"You-hoo!" a soft, feminine voice called into the flat. A few seconds later a short woman who appeared to be in her early- to mid-seventies turned the corner into the kitchen. "Oh," she started upon seeing me, "hello. Who are you? Sherlock, you didn't tell me you and John had a guest."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his lap. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. What can I do for you today?"

The older woman walked forward, holding out her hand. "What's your name, dear?"

"Elizabeth," I told her, taking her hand in mine. She had a pretty good grip for a woman of her build and age.

She smiled at me. "I'm the landlady. Mrs. Hudson. I'm not married; I just never dropped the title. Fits me better at my age, I think."

I smiled at her, not knowing what to say to that.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock spoke up again, directing her attention back to him. "Is there something you needed?"

"Oh, yes. Have you seen, downstairs?" She fluttered her hand, her fingers pointed down at the floor. "Honestly, Sherlock. What have you done this time?"

Sherlock's head tilted to the side as he peered at the landlady curiously. "Show me, please."

"Well, I—"

"Just show me." He was already standing, the front button of his suit jacket in place. A habit. Nice to know he had them. Had little things he did unconsciously. The little woman nodded and clipped out of view. "I'll be right back," he threw over his shoulder at me.

I wanted to break down and go after him, like the characters in the books I've read always did. Like my adventurous and verging on disobedient brother always had. But years and years of having the "proper lady" and "good girl" speeches drilled in me broke down that desire. I stayed put in my chair.

It was quite a while before I heard Sherlock's footsteps trotting back up the stairs. Just his. He was alone. He didn't enter the kitchen when he emerged onto this level, instead leaning against the wall. He looked at me.

"What's happening downstairs?" I asked. My curiosity would kill me one day. My father had predicted it.

Sherlock made a face. "Nothing important. John called," he twisted his hand a bit and I noticed him holding his phone, "and reminded me that Greg wanted a report from you."

My throat went dry. I nodded. "Right."

He nodded over his shoulder towards the living room. "Come on. More comfortable out here." He turned and walked away, confident I would follow.

More confident than I was.

But in the end he was right, because I pushed myself to my feet and walked after him. He was already sitting with his legs crossed in his chair. He gestured for me to sit in John's. I did, tucking my feet under me and wrapping an arm loosely around my knees. It was a physical effort to keep that arm loose.

"I'm going to record this on my phone, for Lestrade's sake, alright? But we can stop any time you feel uncomfortable." Sherlock set his iPhone down on the armrest of his chair. The screen was lit up, waiting for its next command.

I nodded. Now I had to make it all the way through. I wondered if he had meant it as a challenge. If John had said it, I would say no. But coming from Sherlock, it could be a no. Or it could be the biggest _I dare you_ ever.

Sherlock pressed a finger to his phone and looked across to me. "Tell me what happened."

"I…" I held up my hand, shaking my head, not knowing where to start. "You know what happened."

He let out a soft breath. "How did your evening start?"

"I don't know. Normal, I guess. Well, no, not really. Typically I would be home, working on schoolwork. But instead I was," I paused, struck by the oddness of it, "I was over at someone's flat."

"Who's flat?"

"A girl's. Um, Amelia. I helped her bring her GCSE Science grade up and she wanted to thank me by inviting me over to watch a DVD."

"So you knew her?" Sherlock was very good at pulling off the neutral cop voice. Too bad he didn't play well enough with other people to be an official member of the force.

I nodded. "Yeah, she's been going to my school for years. We've just never really talked is all." I never really talked to anyone. But I didn't mention that.

"Did you do anything else there?"

"No. I ate dinner at home, went over to Amelia's to watch the DVD, and then walked home when it was over. It wasn't that late, maybe eight forty-five or so, and she lives at the opposite end of my street. She offered me a ride but I turned it down. I could walk; the sidewalks were lit. I mean, this is London."

"But you didn't make it home." Sherlock stated it, he didn't ask. He knew it wasn't something to be questioned.

My hands trembled. "No, I didn't. I was… I was right on my doorstep. I was getting my keys out of my pocket when I was grabbed from behind." I stopped to take a deep breath, images from that night flashing in front of my eyes. "His hands were huge. One covered my mouth so I couldn't scream. His other arm banded across my stomach, pinning my arms."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked again, his voice softer this time.

"I kicked his knee, and when his grip loosened a bit I brought my keys up in my hand and scraped them down the length of his arm." Sherlock looked like he wanted to smile. There was definitely a certain satisfaction in his eyes. "But he just caught me again and hit me on the back of the head. I blacked out."

I picked at the sleeve of my shirt. "When I woke up I was blindfolded and tied up. I think I was in an old house. I remember it smelled bad—musty. I was moved twelve more times, the last putting me at the warehouse. I was never kept anywhere for the same amount of time nor did we ever head off in the same direction when we left the previous location." I looked up at Sherlock, who was gazing openly at me. "You know what happened at the warehouse."

He stayed silent for a few seconds. "Thank you, Elizabeth." He clicked off the recorder on his phone and slid it back into his pocket.

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. My hands had stopped shaking, so I set them on my knees. I didn't know what else to do with them. I didn't want to move.

"Would you like some water?"

I nodded, still staring at my hands. Now what was wrong with me? I wasn't quite sure. I shook my head, blinking rapidly as I tried to clear my mind.

I needed to focus. I was fine.

Suddenly there was a water glass in my face. I started, raising my head to look up at Sherlock. I smiled. "Thanks," I said, taking the cool glass from him.

"Are you alright?" He sat across from me again, this time hopping up so he sat on the back of the chair, his feet pressed into the cushion.

My eyebrows bunched together as I stared at him sitting like that.

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

He seemed baffled. "Sitting. Are you sure you're alright?"

He respected furniture as much as he respected most people. Duly noted. I waved my hand at him. "I'm fine. When is John expected back?"

"How long has he been gone?"

I stared at the detective in front of me, baffled. "I don't know; I was asleep when he left."

"Well I certainly don't remember. Apparently I continue on talking to him even when he's gone. I don't notice when he leaves, I just notice when he doesn't answer right away."

The more I thought about that, the more my chest constricted. I would hate to get so caught up in what I was doing that I stopped noticing things around me. Things that I took for granted. Sherlock obviously took John being around for granted.

In the silence I heard the lock click downstairs. Sherlock turned his head. "If you speak of the devil, the devil shall appear." He winked at me. I giggled.

The door slammed shut. There was a pause and then the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs.

John walked into the room, his jacket beaded with water at the shoulder. He was carrying clear plastic bags in his hands—through them I could see an assortment of clothes that I identified as my own. Quite a few of them. Bless him.

"There are reporters outside," he declared immediately, not bothering with formalities.

I started, sitting up straighter. "What?"

"I know," Sherlock said quietly.

_Come again? _My jaw went slack as I spun around to face him. "You _kne—_oh," the accusation left my voice, "Mrs. Hudson."

He blinked slowly, pressing his steepled fingers to his lips.

"What about Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, looking between Sherlock and me. Now his voice held an accusatory tone.

Sherlock ignored him. "I had my suspicions when she first walked in here. That's why I asked you to stay upstairs."

"Well, what do we do?" John asked, giving up on his last question. "She can't stay holed up here forever." He sounded tired. I wondered how much sleep he had gotten last night. Wondered if he had taken pills to force himself to sleep or if he had stayed awake waiting for me to start screaming again.

I was hoping for the former, but door number two seemed more likely. Poor man.

"No. No, not at all. But it will be a long while before they get bored of standing down there. Anything for the big scoop, you know." He tapped his fingers together, pursing his lips. "Elizabeth, why don't you go change? I need to think."

Having the distinct impression that I had just been dismissed, I unfolded myself from the chair. John motioned me to follow him and led me upstairs to his room, which, unlike Sherlock's, gave me a definite feeling of possession. It felt lived in, and it felt like _John_ lived in it.

Of course, maybe the lack of that in Sherlock's room was what made it Sherlock's room. The mere thought depressed me.

With the differences between the two rooms, though, I could see why they hadn't committed themselves to just one.

John handed me the bags. "I'll be downstairs. Come on down when you're ready." He left, closing the door with a soft click.

I set the bags on the bed, upturning them to see what John had been able to grab from the Yard. There was a skirt and blouse, which I instantly shook my head at. Good thinking on John's part, though. Best to prepare for everything. I also saw my own pajamas in the pile, the maroon fabric barely visible underneath the other articles of clothing.

My eyes fell on a black tee and my most comfortable, worn out pair of jeans. Even clean they had smudges of charcoal and paint marks on them. Permanents scars from my one hour per week spent working on art in them. John had even managed to get a sweatshirt Andrew had given me as a gift with his university's logo on it. A pair of shoes topped off the deal.

I changed quickly. Not knowing what else to do with the borrowed pajamas, I folded them up and set them on the corner of the bed. I put the rest of my clothes back in the clear bags and walked down the stairs.

Both John and Sherlock glanced up when I came into the room.

"What's happening, then?" I asked. I leaned my shoulder against the wall, putting my weight on my left leg.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and commenced pacing. John's dark eyes followed him, slightly concerned. "We have two problems," the detective explained, looking over his shoulder at me. "The first, and most obvious, being the reporters and the fact that if they know you're here, so does the man who orchestrated your kidnapping. Logically speaking, that means that we need to get you out of here and to a different, safer, location."

"But if we do that," John supplied, his fingers tapping against his forearm, "then we're basically handing you over to the press. Rumors will fly. Because there's only one way out of here, and it's through that door downstairs." He pointed past me.

"How do we know that the man who planned it is still after me?" That part was what I wasn't understanding. He had failed once, had lost one of his charges. Why try again? More importantly, why go after me specifically when he could go after anyone?

John exchanged a short but weighted look with Sherlock, who had paused his pacing. Obviously they had been talking about all of this while I had been upstairs. This had come up. This had been a major topic. It concerned both of them.

"We don't. Not for sure. But we presume that now he might be. Now that you're here at 221b Baker Street."

"You mean because I'm with you?" I squinted slightly at Sherlock. "You know who he is, don't you?"

He nodded once, briskly.

Perfect. I wasn't sure if I meant that literally or sarcastically.

Either way, I didn't press the topic. If they were keeping information from me, they had their reasons. Hopefully they were good ones and not selfish ones.

"I guess I'm going to be finding a new place to crash then." I gave a smile. It was a weak smile. I was sad to leave. I had already become attached to the ex-military doctor and over-confident consulting detective.

John looked at me sadly. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I know you've been through a lot already."

I shook my head at him. "It's fine. I'm fine. Really."

"Excuse me." Sherlock walked from the room, his phone held up to his ear. "Hello, Mycroft. How are you?" I heard him ask before he shut his bedroom door and the words became muffled.

I tuned him out. He would tell me anything I needed to know. Funny how I trusted him to do that. Maybe it wasn't.

No, I guess not. Not really.

I shifted my weight to my other foot, my shoulder slipping a bit against the wall.

John's eyes dropped to the clear bags when they rustled with my movements. "I'll be right back." He dashed up the stairs. When he returned, it was with a sandy-colored backpack in one hand. His last name was written across the back in all capital letters. A military bag. "Here," he held it out to me, "you may as well take it; I'll never use it again."

"John, I… I can't. I can't take this."

He pressed it into my hands. "Borrow it then. You can give it back when you get your own bag back. Alright?"

I was going to refuse again, I really was. But the sincerity in John's eyes stopped me. He wasn't just being polite. He _wanted_ me to have it. After all that he had done for me, if using his old military bag would make him happy, who was I to deny it?

"Alright," I agreed, taking the bag and putting my clothes inside. "Thank you."

Sherlock appeared before he could respond. "I've got a place for you to stay."

I pulled the zipper closed on the bag and turned toward him. "Who's Mycroft?"

Sherlock pointed at me, his finger wagging slightly. He glanced askance at John. "You see that? I like that. She's good. Better than most, at least."

I sat down on the arm of the couch, folding my arms across my stomach. "So who is he?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "He's my brother. He's got a position in the British government, one that he thinks is minor but is practically the entire thing. He has agreed, after catching himself up with the whole situation, to let you stay at his house for a period of time."

I nodded. The room fell silent for a few seconds, but it wasn't awkward. It wasn't sad, either. It was… waiting. A breath-holding silence. I let out my breath first. "We should go then, huh?"

Sherlock actually gave me a small smile. "You're very brave."

I laughed. "There's no bravery in walking down the stairs."

"There is a lot of bravery in facing a hoard of press head on, in trusting two people you hardly know to take you to the residence of a third person you've never even heard of. Even more bravery to trust your life in the hands of all three strangers." He shook his head slightly. "My dear, you are one of the bravest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Certainly the bravest of your age."

Heat rose in my cheeks and I ducked my head for a moment. I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't try to say anything. I looked back up at him, holding his gaze for a long moment, hoping to portray my thoughts through my eyes.

But unless he could read minds, I don't think it worked.

I blinked. "Alright, let's go."

John led the way downstairs, pausing just inside of the door. "Is Mycroft sending a car?" Sherlock shook his head. "I'll go get us a cab then."

Flash bulbs popped as soon as he opened the door. People were crammed up against the door, but as soon as they saw it was John they calmed down, if only just a little. He closed the door and the world quieted again.

"You might want to put that hood up," Sherlock commented. He wasn't looking at me. He was still staring at the door, staring after John.

"And make them think I'm hiding? No, I'm fine like this." I ran my fingers through my hair, pushing it back to expose the bruise that rested on my cheek. Sherlock had called me brave. Let London see that I was strong.

Even if I was just pretending.

The door opened and John's head appeared inside. "Come on then. I've got us a cab."

Sherlock put his arm behind my shoulders and guided me from the flat. As soon as my foot left the threshold, cameras and recorders were shoved in my face. Reporters yelled questions at me, demanding my undivided attention. I ignored all of them, held my chin high, and kept walking, following John through the crowd.

The mass of people and equipment didn't part until we were literally against the side of the cab. John was holding the door open and ushering me inside. I quickly slid in, as gracefully as possible, and he and Sherlock soon followed.

Sherlock told the cabbie the address and we started rolling forward.

All of our breaths let out in a collective sigh as we pulled away from the curb. "Miss it?" John asked, looking at Sherlock.

He shook his head in denial. Just once. But there was a mischievous smile on his face. "Not really."

We road in silence the rest of the time. I was holding John's bag to my chest, my arms hooked through the arm straps.

A while later, the cab pulled up in front of a large house on the outskirts of London. "He has a house?" I asked. Oh, wait, government job. Naturally he had a house instead of a flat.

"Of course he has a house." Sherlock paid the cabbie before stepping out and holding the door for me.

We all got out and walked to the door together. Sherlock was just raising his hand to knock when the door opened. "Ah, Mycroft." Sherlock straightened his jacket. Consciously or unconsciously, I'm not sure.

The man at the door looked past Sherlock and right at me. He held out his hand. "Elizabeth Taylor, I presume. Mycroft Holmes. Nice to meet you." I shook his hand. I wasn't sure if I trusted him or not. There was obvious resentment between the brothers, and John stiffened whenever they looked at each other, like he was expecting to have to break apart a fight, but he seemed nice enough.

Perhaps a bit self-centered, but nice enough. Besides, he was offering to let me stay with him for a while. He could kick me out at any point, and then where would I go? Some state place for orphans? No thanks. I could behave.

"You as well."

John looked like he was about to say something when Sherlock's phone rang out. He answered it. "I'm busy, Lestrade. Oh." He glanced my way. "Alright. Alright, I'll meet you there." He hung up with a sigh before addressing the rest of us. "It's happening again. Another kidnapping has happened, in the same style as yours," he gestured to me.

"I'm coming with you," John announced. I had figured as much. He looked over at me.

"It's alright. Go. Solve it, please." I shooed them away with my hand, stepping back into Mycroft's house. They waved and walked away, and Mycroft shut the door.

"There's a room upstairs already turned down for you," he said, walking a bit farther into the house. "If you would like to put your things in there. First door on the right."

"Actually, is there any way I can get onto your roof?" I asked sheepishly, avoiding his eyes for a heartbeat.

He turned, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"Being high up relaxes me. Calms me down," I tried to explain. I didn't want to go into the whole story, about how I had hid in the branches of a dead tree for hours after my cat had died when I was little, just letting the wind blow against my hot cheeks and dry my tears as they fell. "I won't do anything stupid, I just want to be at peace for a few minutes."

"At the end of the hall there's a bedroom with a balcony." And with that, he walked away. Cold shouldered. Alrighty then.

I narrowed my eyes after him but let it go. Whatever. Shouldering John's military backpack, I walked upstairs. I dropped the bag off in the room Mycroft had said was mine before heading to the one at the end of the hall.

The doors that lead to the balcony were double glass and had frilly white curtains covering them. I wondered who stayed in this room, if anyone ever did. It was a rather large house for only one man.

I twisted the lock and opened one of the doors, stepping out onto the balcony. The rain had ceased on the drive over from Baker Street, but the scent of the spring storm still hung in the air. I pressed my palms to the railing, tipping my head up to look at the light grey clouds. Taking a deep and steadying breath, I closed my eyes.

"I knew you had an affinity for heights, I just didn't think you would act on that love this quickly."

I froze at the voice that didn't belong to Mycroft.

"A bit easy, really. Disappointing."

I opened my eyes, slowly pivoting. On the opposite side of the balcony was a man. I recognized him. Oh, yes, I recognized him. He was a hard man to forget, though I imagined telling him that would just boost his ego.

"Come to take me away, Moriarty?" I asked, putting on my false bravado again.

"I was going to ask nicely." He took a step forward.

"No you weren't."

"Nah, you're right, I wasn't. I know you. You like to cause problems. So I'm going to make you an offer instead." He folded his hands behind his back.

I waited for him to continue on his own. When he didn't I broke first. "Which is?"

He smirked. "Come with me, or I'll shoot Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"You're bluffing." I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Am I?" He leaned back against the railing, not five feet in front of me. He looked bored. "I had little Ryan killed. And your family. And I had no reason to kill them. Why wouldn't I shoot two more people? Two people who have done nothing but get in my way."

"Because you haven't yet."

"Oh, but honey, I like to be changeable. It makes me... unpredictable."

I squared my shoulders. "What makes you think I wouldn't let you shoot them?" Two could tango. It really wasn't a dance for one.

He laughed. "Because, my dear Elizabeth," he pushed away from the railing, "then I wouldn't be here, because you would already be just like me." He enunciated the last four words individually. "So, what's it going to be? You? Or them?"


	4. Reaction

My hands were tied behind my back in a rather uncomfortable position. But my eyes were open and my mouth wasn't gagged.

Of course I had gone with him.

"So is Mycroft in on this?" Getting down from the balcony had seemed too easy and a bit too obvious.

Moriarty laughed from beside me in the backseat of the car. He sounded manic. I wondered if he always sounded like that or if he was being especially scary for me. "Oh, please. Don't insult me. Mycroft was a means to an end a _long_ time ago. I no longer need his help for anything."

I turned to gaze out of the tinted window. I could see Moriarty's reflection in it, a little distorted. I watched as he watched me, leaning back against the door. "Why are you doing this?" I had to know.

Jim folded his hands over the knee of his crossed leg. "There is a bad person in everyone. I am just trying to bring more people to my side of the board."

The board. "You think this is a game?" I was forcing myself not to look at him. I didn't want to make contact with those sincere brown eyes and show him how afraid I was.

"Of course it's a game!" He laughed again. "Some days it's chess, other days hide-and-seek, but it's always just a game."

I didn't say anything. No need to encourage him. He seemed the type of person to cherish an audience. To need one. Maybe he wouldn't talk if I ignored him.

"You'll see, Elizabeth. You'll understand." He turned his head away from me. "I'll make sure of it."

My fists knotted together at the small of my back. My jaw clenched. I bit my tongue, refusing to comment.

The car suddenly stopped. "Where are we?" I broke my no talking rule.

"Nowhere. I just want you blind now." He reached across the seat and wrapped a blindfold around my eyes.

Right. Bloody brilliant.

"Who do you think I'm going to tell?" I taunted. Still, I didn't resist the extra handicap. The threat of him killing John and Sherlock still hung over my head and affected my actions. I wasn't going to do anything until I knew they were going to be safe.

So I let myself get blindfolded, and when the car started moving again, I fell silent once again.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment, Elizabeth?" Jim asked.

I ignored him. He laughed.

Some time later, the car rolled to a halt. I heard Moriarty exit and then my door was opened. I was dragged from the car by my arm. Whoever was pulling me along—I knew it wasn't Moriarty because his hands weren't this large—was being none too gentle.

A door opened, one that belonged to a house or a flat, and I was pushed inside. Keys jingled and light switches clicked. An old hinge creaked. I was pushed forward again, and my foot fell into empty air. Stairs.

I took another step, more cautiously this time. Caution wasn't in the agenda, apparently, because I was shoved from behind. I stumbled, tripping on the stairs. I would have fallen if the man hadn't also been holding onto my arm as well as pushing me. Scare tactics, but he wasn't actually trying to hurt me. I wondered how long that would last.

My feet finally hit a cement floor. I was already cold from being in the basement. I was thrown into a chair, my hands untied only to be retied to the cool metal arms of the chair. I heard a door shut and then the blind fold was ripped from my eyes.

I blinked rapidly, trying to make my eyes adjust faster. The room was bright. It was grey, but a light grey. After the darkness of the blindfold, it was painful to my eyes. Moriarty stood directly in my line of sight, casually leaning back against the wall. There was a door on his right.

"What's the point of this?" I asked, going for a bored tone and ending up with slightly nervous. I should just stop trying while I was ahead.

Moriarty shook his head, closing his eyes. He made a disappointed face. "You really don't listen well, do you?" He looked back up at me. "You're so _convinced_ that I'm wrong, that Sherlock's way of the angels is the right way. You've just never been in a different situation. You've never _seen_ the other side of yourself."

I narrowed my eyes. What was he planning?

His lips quirked up in smile. He pounded his palm against the door before crossing his arms over his chest. The door opened slowly and a girl walked in. She wasn't blindfolded, she wasn't bound in any way. She had really bright red, frizzy hair that framed a freckled and innocent face with bright blue eyes.

"Amelia?" She didn't look frightened, or nervous, or anything that would suggest she was here against her will. She looked calm, cool, collected, and like she had been here many times before.

She lifted her chin at me, her eyes narrowing. The door slammed with an echoing bang behind her. She stood as tall as her five foot six frame would let her, her bright hair the only color in the room. She didn't say anything.

"What is this?" The question was open, anyone could answer, but my eyes were fixed on Amelia.

Moriarty's grin turned into a broad smile. "I don't suppose you'll fight her?" he asked me, nodding his head sideways at the girl I thought I knew.

"What?" The question caught me off guard. "No, of course I won't fight her. What the hell?"

He shook his head sadly. "I'll leave you girls alone, then." He put a light hand on Amelia's shoulder. I felt like screaming at him to take it off, to not touch her. I didn't. "You know what to do," I heard him whisper. She nodded, her eyes hardening.

Moriarty motioned with his finger and the man that had been standing behind me—I had completely forgotten about him—left the room. After one last sad look at me, so did Jim.

"Amelia, what's going on?" I asked, pulling at the ropes that bound my hands. I bit my cheek as there was a second of pain where the scabs ripped beneath the bandages.

She took a couple steps forward. "Explaining it makes it lose its beauty." She took another step, shucking off her jumper so that she was just in a tee. Her arms were lined with scars.

I gasped at the sight of them all. "What happened to you?"

She smiled at me, and it was the smile of a happy teenager. Maybe one who had just gotten her first kiss. "You'll see. Just remember that you could have said yes."

My stomach tightened at her smile and words. Fear raced through my veins. This wasn't right. This was all sorts of wrong.

Amelia closed the remaining space between us and, before I could utter a sound, slammed her fist into my sternum.

My breath was forced from my lungs in one long breath and I doubled forward at the waist. My mouth was wide as I was trying to gasp for air. I couldn't. I couldn't breathe. My lungs weren't working. Amelia gripped my shoulder and forced my back to straighten. Air flooded my lungs.

My eyes watered and I coughed, gasping. I looked up at Amelia in what had to have been the most pitiful look to have ever crossed my face. She curled her lip at me. "Don't look so betrayed. We haven't even started yet." She reached down and untied my wrists, hauling my up by the front of my shirt.

I pushed her away, running for the door. I grabbed at the handled, twisting and jerking at it madly.

A hand was fisted in my hair and I was yanked to the ground. I braced my elbow out to catch myself and immediately regretted it when it smacked into the concrete. I rolled onto my side, cradling my elbow, groaning at the sharp pain.

I blinked and Amelia was in front of me. She pulled back her fist and threw it into my jaw.

Pain sprouted along my jaw, inside my mouth. I tasted blood. None of my teeth had fallen out, which was good. Amelia grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my head back and up until our eyes were level. "Don't run from me again," she breathed. I wish she had yelled. Her soft, quiet voice was far more frightening than yelling and screaming.

She dragged me up by my hair and I quickly scrambled to my knees and then feet. I was shoved back against the far wall, the one that had been behind me when I had first had the blindfold taken off. Amelia pinned me with her knee, yanking my arm above my head. I felt a rope slide over the bandage on my wrist before it was drawn tight. When she pulled her hand away, I couldn't bring my arm back down.

It was tied above my head.

When she tried to repeat the process on my other arm, I fought a bit, trying to buck off her knee. Trying to kick her. She elbowed me in the throat. I gagged, choking, forcing air down my windpipe. By the time I could breathe again, she had backed off.

She was walking away from me, towards one of the back corners of the room—the one on my right. There was a small metal table sitting there.

Oh, good. The furniture matched.

I focused back on Amelia, who was wrapping white tape around her knuckles. My stomach clenched at the possibilities that could offer, the places she had already hit throbbing in protest.

"Who did they get to torture you?" Maybe if I could get her to talk, I could distract her from beating me bloody. The tactic had worked in movies and books, why not real life?

She ignored me.

"Oh, come on. It wasn't Moriarty. He doesn't care about any individual that much except Sherlock Holmes. So who was it?"

Her hands fisted. Testing the tape? The tension in her neck and shoulders belied something else. Still, she said nothing.

"Someone you knew." I should probably shut up, my instincts knew I should. But I couldn't stop taunting her. "Maybe not someone close, but close enough where you would feel betrayed. Neighbor? Distant relative? Family frie—"

I hadn't even been able to finish my sentence before she was pommeling my sides like I was a punching bag. Her knuckles dug into my flesh with every hit. We were both panting when she finally backed off. I spit out a mouthful of blood.

"Don't _talk_ about that," she snarled in my face, her breathy voice edged with shards of glass.

I smiled, and I felt blood drip down to my chin. "Whoever it was, they broke you real bad didn't they? How long did it take before you begged them to stop?" My voice had a crazy hitch to it, one I didn't recognize as belonging to me. This couldn't be me talking. This wasn't my voice. It just couldn't be.

She drew out a knife from nowhere and slashed a line of fire above my collarbone.

I screamed, throwing my head back and then dropping it forward. I forced it back up before long, despite the fact that my vision was foggy. From blood loss or pain, I wasn't quite sure. Probably the latter; I couldn't remember losing that much blood. As it was, I couldn't make out any details. But I could see the haze of Amelia's bright hair and the flash of metal as she brought the knife up again.

I flinched, waiting for the pain. None came until I fell harshly to my knees on the concrete.

She had cut me loose.

Not that it mattered. I could barely see, let alone run. And the door was locked. No, I wasn't getting out of here, and she knew it.

"Stand up." Her voice was low, menacing. Knowing that a short, small, lively girl was producing such a growl made it all the more frightening.

I lifted my eyes to track her but didn't move my head. "Why?" My voice cracked and, despite the situation, I found myself ashamed of that.

"To fight me, you idiot."

The insult bit at me, though I had been called worse. Still, I didn't rise to the bait. "No."

She kicked my ribs, over and over again. I fell forward onto my palms when she relented. Tears slipped from my eyes as the sharp throbs and shocks of agony in my ribs and abdomen momentarily overwhelmed me.

I wondered, briefly, as I stared at a small spot of my blood on the floor, if Mycroft realized I was missing yet. If he had bothered to check on me since I had gone upstairs to stand on the balcony. And if he had, I wondered if he had told Sherlock, or if he had kept the information to himself out of shame.

He hadn't been able to keep me safe for even fifteen minutes.

"You take the pain pretty well," Amelia said. I heard her moving around on the balls of her feet. "Like you've taken it before. Have you ever been beaten, Elizabeth?"

My hands curled into fists. I bit my cheek.

She laughed. "Was it Dad? I bet it was Dad. Couldn't live up to his expectations? Poor Elizabeth. Tell me, did he beat you every day or just once in a while?"

"Shut up," I snapped. But my voice was quiet, and there wasn't much force behind it.

"Did he ever screw it up and leave visible bruises where others could see? Did you ever have to cover them up with makeup? Was it just you, because you were pathetic, or did he beat up Mommy dearest too?" She was behind me, circling me. She was having too much fun with this.

"Shut up!" My voice was at least three octaves too high. I kicked out at her with my foot. I missed.

"Oh, come _on_, Elizabeth! You're glad he's dead! You're happy I killed him!" She dropped her voice then as she came around closer to my other side. "And your mother, after being raped and suffocated by those men, begged me to slit her throat."

I screamed in anger and lunged at her. My shoulder collided with her legs, my arms wrapping around them. She fell backwards to the floor.

I wasted no time crawling up her body, landing punches whenever I thought to. I stopped when I was straddling her waist. She tried to buck me off, but I stayed planted, slamming my knuckles into her jaw repeatedly.

My vision turned a little clearer, a little more focused, the longer I beat on her. I could see exactly what I was doing, and no matter how horrified I was by it, part of me was sickly happy.

I couldn't stop.

She reached up and grabbed my wrists, surprising me. I thought she was down for good. She was still holding the knife, and she pressed it up against the soft skin on the inside of my arm, slicing it open. I choked down the howl of blinding pain, pushing against her as she tried to shove me off. She dropped one of her hands, catching me off guard and throwing off my balance. I fell forward—only slightly, but it was enough.

She lifted her hips one more time and unseated me, throwing me off of her to the side. She flipped over and was on top of me before I could blink. She leaned into me, her knees on either side of my thighs, pinning me to the floor.

"And your brother," her wicked grin was back as she pushed the knife against the skin at the base of my throat, "his last thoughts were on you. Damning you for ripping apart your family. For killing them."

The knife was in my hands, though I don't know how it got there. Maybe she put it there. But before I was fully aware of my actions, I gripped the handle tighter and thrust the blade up into her gut.

Her hands tightened their hold on my wrists first, to a level that was almost bone-crushing. She was strong, for such a small girl. Then her face slackened, her mouth forming a small 'oh.' She looked down at the knife protruding into her abdomen, at my fingers still wrapped around the handle.

And last her body sagged with her last exhale and she died.

I pushed her off of me, backpedaling away. My shirt was wet and I saw a huge bloodstain that had formed over my abdomen. Her blood. Amelia's blood. My knuckles were covered with it too.

The door opened softly and two men walked in. One stayed put just inside of the room, to the right of the door, and the other walked towards me—slowly, though. I ignored him. I was too focused on the motionless body of the girl who lived down the street from me. The girl I had killed.

There was a pressure at my wrist that made me drop the knife. I barely felt it. My hands were loosely tied behind my back and I was pulled into a standing position. A hand on my arm and another on my shoulder pushed me forward. I twisted around for one last look at the fanned out red hair of the girl who had broken me.

"I told you," Moriarty's delicate voice brought my head forward. "Everyone has a bad person in them. And I made you," he poked the tip of my nose, "act on yours."

I didn't even notice I was crying until he brought out a handkerchief and wiped at my cheeks. He gave me a sad smile before looking over my shoulder, presumably at the man holding me. We started walking forward.

I almost didn't make it up the stairs, but he helped me when I tripped. He actually let me go once we reached the main floor. I was confused until I realized that I was helpless. I couldn't go anywhere. He led me outside and my fears were confirmed. We were in the country. If I had taken off, especially in my beaten state, who knew how long I would have lasted. He opened the rear door of a black car for me and brought out a black blindfold.

I gave the fabric a long look before turning away. I couldn't find it in me to care. They could kill me if they wanted to and I wouldn't fight them back.

I wished they would kill me.

Tears poured from my eyes under the black fabric after I felt the door slam shut. My shoulders shook.

_What have I done?_

We didn't drive very long before the car pulled over. The engine didn't shut off, however. Not stopping for long. Dumping me? Probably.

My door opened and hands grabbed me, pulling me out.

"Sit," a gruff voice instructed. I listened and was immediately rewarded with the seeping cold of cement. "You're in town. On the edge of it. Stay put and you'll be found." I heard his footsteps leave and the car drive away. I was alone again.

I started shaking. All over, my whole body. I couldn't see, couldn't distract myself in any way. All I saw in my mind was the knife sticking into flesh, the dead body of a girl. A girl I had killed. The blood on my hands. My throat burned, with a sob or a scream I didn't know. In case it was a scream, I held it back.

"Oh my God," a high female voice. Not someone I knew. I wasn't sure if I was happy about that or not. "Oh my God, what happened to you?" Hands fluttered over my shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" I screamed, flinching away from the touch. I choked on a sob. "Please don't touch me." I was afraid of myself, afraid that I was going to hurt everyone now.

"Okay, alright I won't. I'm going to call the police, okay?" The lady's voice was soothing. She was good at the silken tone. Maybe she worked with children. Or animals.

"Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector Lestrade." I managed to tell her. I didn't want to deal with anyone else. I wanted someone I knew.

"Do you know him?" she asked, typing in a number. I nodded. "Scotland Yard, please. Yes, this is an emergency. No, I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade." There was a long pause. "Well tell him this is damn important! I have a bruised and bloody girl asking specifically for him." Another pause. "I'll be right back," she whispered calmly to me before walking away a short ways.

I never understood that. I could still hear her.

But I didn't try. I ignored her.

My shoulders relaxed a little and my tears rolled faster.

"They're on their way," they woman told me. I hadn't heard her approach again.

I nodded. I couldn't find my voice or I would have thanked her. At least I like to think that I would have.

She paced beside me until sirens sounded in the distance. My breath fell from my lungs in relief. But then my muscles tightened again. What if I hurt them? What if I hurt my friends? I started to shake again.

The sirens shut off and I heard Sally Donovan call the woman over. "You're okay now," she told me before walking away.

Footsteps approached me. I scooted myself back. "Don't touch me," I repeated to the three approaching people, my voice a small whisper. I wasn't sure if I meant it or not.

Two of the pairs of footsteps halted. "Elizabeth? It's me. It's John. Can I come forward?"

My chin quivered as I fought back a sob. Of course John would do this. I didn't reply, just made a small whimper.

I didn't hear his footfalls anymore, he was walking too softly. But he kept talking to me. "It's alright, sweetie. You're going to be alright."

I was shaking my head, tears dripping from my chin. I wasn't going to be alright. I couldn't get better, not from this.

"Yes you are. It's okay. I promise." He was closer, right next to me. A tremble ran through my shoulders. His fingers touched my wrists where they were bound together and I jumped, skidding away. "I'm not going to hurt you, Elizabeth."

The emotion in his voice made my throat burn. "I know," I whispered. "I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

"Then let me cut the ropes without touching you."

I paused for a while before nodding. There was a tension against my arms and then they were free. I tried to pull away but didn't manage before John had pulled off my blindfold.

I looked away quickly, letting my hair fall in front of my face. I closed my eyes tightly. My hands were fists. I wanted to run but where would I go? I wouldn't get far.

John put his hands on either side of my face and forced my head to turn towards him. I kept my eyes squeezed shut. "Elizabeth, look at me, please." I shook my head as much as I could in his hands. His fingers tightened their hold. "I don't know what he did to you, but I won't let you hurt me, and I won't hold a grudge if you do. Elizabeth, _please_."

I thought by now I would be all out of tears. But somehow more managed to slip from the corners of my eyes as I slowly opened them. The openly worried expression on John's face broke me, and I lunged forward into his arms. I buried my face against his shoulder, holding him so tightly that my arms shook from the effort and I was sure I would snap him in half. But he didn't complain.

"Thank God," he murmured, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, holding me and gently rocking me. "You're alright. I've got you."

"Sherlock?" I managed, somehow making my voice loud enough to be heard through John's coat.

"I'm here." His voice didn't sound far from my ear, so I let go of John and wrapped him in a hug too. "Hey hey hey. Calm down," he soothed, running a hand through my hair. "Just breathe."

"Were you looking for me?" I asked. I needed to know, right then and there. Because if I didn't ask, I would forget.

"As soon as the name of the girl who was kidnapped became known to me, I knew you were going to be in trouble. John and I headed back to Mycroft's immediately. But it was too late; you were already gone." His hand tightened on my shirt for a second.

My eyebrows knitted together. I sniffed, trying to drag in enough air to properly talk. "What was her name?" I asked, pulling away to look at Sherlock.

"Amelia."

My eyes went wide and any comfort I had felt drained at hearing her name again so soon. I swayed.

"Elizabeth? It's alright, we'll find her too," John assured me, setting his hand gently on my shoulder.

"No you won't. She's… she's dead."

There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock and John locked gazes. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

I looked up at John, meeting his eyes with tears welling in mine to the point where I couldn't see very well out of them. "Because I killed her."

I stared out of the cab window at the London street we were driving down at the moment. Dawn had hit the city an hour ago but the light would be the same for the rest of the day through the clouds. It was snowing already, adding to the three inches that hadn't been plowed away yet. I had missed this, more than I thought I would.

I had been gone off to college for two years now. Back home in North Carolina, it was Christmas break. All of campus but a few stragglers went back to their home towns to visit their families. Last year I hadn't had enough money, but this year I was doing just that. Visiting my family.

After Moriarty had released me, I had spent a week in the hospital. It had seemed too long for me, but John told me I was lucky to have just gotten a week with the internal damage I had sustained. That still hadn't kept me from complaining.

I still had a long scar on the inside of my arm and one running along my collarbone from where Amelia had cut me. I had been self-conscious of them initially, covering them up with jumpers and jackets. Now I didn't care who saw nor who stared.

Lestrade hadn't even given a second thought to calling Amelia's death self-defense on my part. I wanted to think that he was right, but even now I had my doubts. The small part of me she had awakened that night was glad she was dead.

John and Sherlock legally adopted me not long after I was released from the hospital. There was some trouble when the social worker said that they weren't a married or engaged couple. I told her right up front that if I wasn't going with them legally, she was going to find me there anyway. I didn't elaborate; she could make of it what she wished. She made the right choice and let it go through.

Going back to school had been rough. Every time I walked into a classroom I was reminded of Amelia, and above all what Moriarty did to her. And what they both did to me. I ran from the building crying the first day, and Sherlock had to leave the flat and come bring me home. It was decided at that point, collectively, that I needed to go see a psychologist, and if necessary after that, a psychiatrist.

Talking to her helped, and sometimes I would ask John if there was anything he did that was different than what she was suggesting. Mostly he told me that he wasn't doing anything, because he didn't think about war all that often. Right.

He was still lying to me about his nightmares as well. There had been a new, full bottle of pills in the cabinet before I had left. I knew because I was taking a few of them every so often.

The cabbie pulled to a halt in front of 221b. I handed him the fair and got out, pulling my luggage with me. I still had my key for the flat, but I was visiting, and they didn't know I was here yet. They thought I was coming later. I knocked.

The door was opened by an immaculately dressed Sherlock. I had found out in my year of living with him that he was always like that—from the minute he woke up until he showered late that night. Unless he was in a ruddy mood, which only came from not having a case in more than three days.

That didn't happen very often.

His straight-backed client-greeting composure fell for a brief moment at the sight of me before he pulled me into a bone-breaking embrace. I released the handle of my suitcase to wrap my arms around him, a smile breaking out on my face.

"You've filled out," he noted when he pulled away, his hands resting on the new muscles I had on my arms.

I shrugged. "Volleyball."

He smiled. "You'll have to tell me all about that." He turned his head back into the flat. "John!" he yelled inside. "Get down here, there's someone here to see you." He motioned me inside, grabbing my bag from where it sat on the sidewalk.

"Give me a second," was the slightly muffled reply from upstairs.

"No, I don't think I've got that long," I hollered.

There was a loud thump and then pounding feet running down the stairs. John didn't even pause before he barreled into me, picking me up and spinning me around.

I laughed, my smile stretched from ear to ear. He set me back down and gave me a proper hug. "Jesus, Elizabeth; call next time your flight is early."

"If I do that, I don't get to see reactions like that from you."

John shook his head, looking at Sherlock for a moment before back at me. "This is going to become a yearly thing now. Two years is too long."

My chest tightened with my smile. "I can't afford to come every year."

"Then we'll pay for every other," Sherlock said confidently. "We'll make it work."

I nodded, working down the lump that had formed in my throat. God, I had missed them. With a small flurry of my hands for them to lead on, I followed them upstairs.

Boxes of personal items still lay around the living room. They still hadn't decided on just one bedroom.


End file.
